


Come on Down to Florida (I Got Somethin' For Ya)

by UneJolieOrdure



Series: Reader Beware, You're In For a Scare [3]
Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Cocaine, Dirty Dancing, Drug Dealing, Drug Mule, Drug Use, Drug-Induced Sex, F/F, F/M, Face-Fucking, Florida, Get your shit together Reader, Ramsay is his own warning, Rape/Non-con Elements, Reader is why we can't have nice things, Reader-Insert, Reader-Interactive, Recreational Drug Use, Sexual Coercion, This Is Why We Can't Have Nice Things, Threesome, You're a mess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-30
Updated: 2017-07-30
Packaged: 2018-12-08 08:09:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11642451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UneJolieOrdure/pseuds/UneJolieOrdure
Summary: This is not the first time you have gone through airport security with three latex gloves full of cocaine in your vagina.





	Come on Down to Florida (I Got Somethin' For Ya)

**Author's Note:**

> I was sitting in my house, not in Florida, wishing I was in Florida, so I wrote this and ruined Florida for myself. This one is obviously radically different from its predecessors. 
> 
> Title song: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8FY0mQpttlM  
> More mood music: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lwnoSeiAFSY

This is not the first time you have gone through airport security with three latex gloves full of cocaine in your vagina. You stay sitting down for as long as possible, using your suitcase as a chair, your legs firmly crossed. You are not nervous, per se, but you are not exactly comfortable. Each little latex-wrapped plastic bag contains about a hundred and fifty grams of coke, amounting to about a pound; you figure that’s roughly a hundred separate felonies, one hell of a yeast infection, and a swift and brutal death if the layers of latex, plastic, and tape manage to break inside of you. You aren’t nervous about security. You never get picked for the cavity search because you’re young, you’re pretty, you have all of your teeth, and you are an excellent liar. You’re wearing a long, summery sundress, clean hair, and a girl-next-door perfume that might even convince the people who know better that you’re a fun, normal college-age girl who doesn’t have any drugs at all in her cooch. 

Eventually, you have to stand up to present your passport. It’s not as hard as one might think to keep a pound of powder inside of you. You know women who regularly smuggle handguns in their happy holes. You heard about one lady in Pennsylvania who got bagged with fifty-four bags of heroin, eight Xanax, and fifty bucks packed up inside Lady Marmalade.* The vagina is a truly amazing part of the body.

The woman at the counter doesn’t even look up at you; she checks your ticket, then spares one cursory glance for your passport. “Where are you going?” 

“Florida,” you reply coolly. “Miami.”

“Is that where you live?”

“No. It’s where my boyfriend lives. I’m going to visit him.”

“Why were you in Peru?” She looks up at you, finally, waiting for whatever lie you’re going to tell. You’ve only been in the city for about two days; that’s barely even long enough for a business meeting. You smile winningly.

“Vacation. I had to cut it short, unfortunately. My boyfriend couldn’t join me here, so I’m going to him.” Her blood-shot eyes tick back down to your passport. She stamps it and waves you through. You remove your flip-flops, chuck them in the plastic bin, and set your modest carry-on down on the belt along with your purse. All you have brought is four changes of clothes, your toothbrush, a comb, a large sum of cash, and your phone charger. Nothing even remotely strange to set off any alarm bells. Anything else you need will be taken care of once you get to Miami. 

Here it is: the only moment of danger. The agent waves you forward. You smile at him. He does not smile back. You step into the X-ray machine in your bare feet and hold out your arms, focusing very hard on your breathing. After a moment, the Peruvian man on the other side beckons, and you are in the clear.

You sip coffee and scroll through your phone just like every other twenty-something in the terminal, feeling quite smug, as you always do when you dupe airport security. There’s still the unlikely chance that a drug dog will stick his head in your crotch and give you away, but that’s never happened before and you doubt it will happen today. _Thru security,_ you text to a number that’s saved in your phone as three dollar sign emojis followed by one skull emoji. 

_See you soon,_ he texts back, and for the first time, you begin to feel nervous.

*

The flight is about six hours long, but you sleep most of the way despite the discomfort of your precious cargo. There will be no time to be jet lagged when you get to Miami. You sleep through dinner, but when the breakfast trays begin to roll down the twilit aisle, piloted by slightly disheveled stewardesses, you accept a granola bar and a little cup of orange juice. When you touch down, he is waiting for you, looking too Midwest for Florida and too Florida for the Midwest. Wholesome American-boy football-player jawline, that not-quite tan that too-white people get after being sunburned for a month straight...he looks like he left Minnesota yesterday, or ten years ago.

He hugs you, and kisses your cheek, as if he really is your boyfriend who has come to pick you up for a fun, harmless, hazy Florida spring break. He even carries your bag to the car for you. You admire the palm trees and the air plants sprouting on the scalloped trunks, the little lizards that scuttle across the asphalt. You like Florida. It’s better than where you’re from, but then again, everywhere is. You slide your sunglasses on and kick your bare feet up on the dashboard. You wish you could take the coke out of your pussy, but it’s not quite time for that yet. 

“How was your flight?” Ramsay asks, in that disingenuously genuine way that fucks you up every time.

“Fine.” Your job is over. Once the bags are out of you, they’re his problem. You can take your money and spend it however you please. You tend to do a little too much “pleasing” and not quite enough “paying bills,” and that, you suppose, is why you’re still doing this stupid shit for cash.

“You know, Y/N, you never tell me about your life,” he drawls, taking the exit for the dark, seedy heart of the city. “What do you do these days besides get stuffed with blow in Peru?” You snort. Your relationship with Ramsay is complicated, has been complicated since you were both kids freezing to death in Minnesota. When you were younger, you had been in love with him, but you had learned very quickly that that was a stupid thing to be. You let him talk you into things that you never would have done otherwise. Now, you know what he’s about: money. You can handle that. You respect the power he has accrued here and you like what he can do for you. There is something fundamentally entertaining about his disregard for humanity that has always attracted you; you like to get skiied and watch him work. 

“Nothing I want to share with you, Bolton,” you reply without taking your sleepy eyes off the road. The two of you disappear quickly into the Miami filth.

As soon as the door to the garish-print motel room is closed, you plant your hands on the wall and spread ‘em. You’re pretty sure that you see a spackled-over bullet hole beside your pinkie finger.

“I got you trained,” he laughs, but you just look over your shoulder and smile.

“Next time I’ll swallow it and make you pick through my shit.”

“God forbid, baby girl.” He lifts your sundress, under which you are not wearing a single stitch, and easily strokes along the soft seam of your vulva before he slips his fore- and middle-fingers inside of you, searching for the prize. The tips of his fingers snag the latex, and he pulls it out slowly. The second and third quickly follow. He tosses the baggies onto the bed and slips his fingers back into you.

“You always do such a good job,” he says, voice low, pressing up against your ass. He may be a douchebag, but he knows how you tick, and you start to feel a little weak in the knees as he works you over.

“You ready to go?” he asks suddenly, pulling his fingers out and stepping back. He grins at you, a challenge. 

“Where we going?”

“To see Uncle Petey.” You roll your eyes, wiggle your ass as if to change his mind, and shrug.

“I gotta change first. And you better rinse those packages off.”

*

You’ve met Peter before. He’s the kind of unstable, domineering maniac that can pass for a real person, which is why you don’t like him. Ramsay is at least honest about being an unstable, domineering maniac. Peter lives in one of those impossibly minimalist, glass-sided apartments that somehow overlooks the whole city while also being intensely private. His retinue of models and high-end call-girls always make you feel frumpy. They don’t even look real; they look like mannequins covered in sealskin with commercial hair, wearing expensive nipple jewelry and gold lamé booty-shorts as if they were casual lounging-about clothes. You feel so out of place in your cheap yellow bandage dress, the classiest thing you own: your drug-selling outfit. There’s a new woman there who you don’t recognize; she doesn’t look like a model or a hooker. She’s wearing an expensive sweatsuit and she looks profoundly uncomfortable. 

You do have one more function, and that’s testing the coke to make sure it’s not cut with anything nasty before Peter takes it off your hands. There’s fewer middlemen this way—it came straight from the source instead of passing through Mexico or through a boat runner—but one can never be too careful. He cuts the line for you on his glass-topped desk and hands you a rolled up hundred. What a prick. You look him in the eye while you plug your left nostril and snort the shit straight off the table. You stuff the hundred in your bra, which makes him laugh.

It’s really good coke. 

Somebody turns on some music, and all the models and call-girls begin to dance as if someone has flipped their collective on-switch. It's a beautiful, long-limbed, flamingo mass, framed by the Miami panorama in the window, the black ocean crashing silently, somewhere. You plop down beside the girl who's not a hooker or a model. She is slowly nursing a drink, looking somber.

“What’s your name?” you ask. You're a lot more talkative when you’re high. She hesitates, then lies, badly.

“Shelby.” You laugh. 

“Sure,” you say. “I’m Y/N.” Across the room, you watch Ramsay leaning in to talk to Peter, both of them smiling, neither of them looking at the other. You nudge the girl with your shoulder. “Watch this, Shelby.”

“Watch what?”

“Watch these two assholes work.”

“What are they talking about?” she asks, smiling faintly, knocking back her cocktail. You follow her lead with the drink you had forgotten that you were holding.

“Well, right about now, Ramsay is trying to convince your—what, your daddy? Your dealer?” You say this very nonchalantly, but she stiffens with awkwardness. 

“Peter is my uncle,” she says carefully. You laugh again.

“Okay, sure. He’s trying to convince your _uncle_ that that pure Peruvian is worth a lot more than it actually is. I’ll bet that bastard walks out of here with two kilos’ worth of cash when I only brought a pound. And you know what else?”

“What?”

“I’m only going to get paid for the pound.” She frowns. She looks like some sort of Russian doll, stripped of finery and dressed up like Paris Hilton circa 2002, with well-shaped pink lips painted onto a white china face.

“That doesn’t sound fair.”

“Life ain’t fair, Shelby. Let’s get fucked up, alright? You’re the only person here who doesn’t look like a bad movie waiting to happen.” She laughs, and nods her agreement. Things get very blurry after that. Somebody cuts some more lines—the cheaper stuff for the sluts and mules—and the booze flows more and more freely. You’re dancing with Shelby, who you have just convinced to do her first-ever line; she snorted it like a champ from your long pinkie nail, and the whole room had cheered for her. There are more people in Peter's apartment now, but you wave the shady, cologne-reeking men away when they try to talk to you. You're focused on Shelby, who leans in close to tell you, "I lied. My name's not Shelby." Her cheeks are flushed and her red hair has come down from its prim ponytail. 

"Oh, shit, I know that. You don't have to tell me your real name," you say sympathetically, putting your hands on her shoulders as if to brace her. You would prefer if she didn't, actually. 

"I want to," she protests. "Sansa."

"That's way prettier than Shelby," you say appreciatively, smiling, a little sadly. "Just don't tell anyone else, okay?" If she's using a fake name, she probably shouldn't be blabbing her real one to the whole world. You have a feeling that you should know who she is, but you're too fucked up to figure it out.

"I won't," she promises. Both of you do another bump. You put your hands on her waist and reel her in close as the music starts to slur in your ears, grinding your hips together, dirty-dancing. Out of the corner of your eye you can see Ramsay watching the both of you; you want him to watch because you are just horrible when you're high. Poor Sansa doesn't know what she's in the middle of. You twine your fingers in the hair near her scalp and kiss her, full of sultry spit.

Seconds later, somebody grabs you by the hair and yanks you away from Sansa. Ramsay kisses you violently, a show of ownership, his wrenching hold on your hair never easing up. Pulling back from the kiss, he moves his grip to your upper arm and steers you away from the bouncing crowd. You grab Sansa's hand and drag her with you. She staggers along gamely. He leads the both of you into a spare bedroom; it blurs around you as you fall down on the bed, giggling like a schoolgirl. Sansa follows, loose, and you scramble on top of her. You unzip her Juicy Couture and pull down her tank-top neckline, exposing her breasts. Her eyes are fluttering, but she's still smiling, so you don't stop. Ramsay is at the end of the bed, watching you. You are kissing her, raking through her hair, your hands on her breasts, your dress up around your hips. You're still wearing your heels.

The world is cutting in and out in flashes. You pull her pants off, pull her lacy panties down, bury your nose in her curly red pubic hair, your ass in the air. While your tongue is hard at work teasing at the annoyingly perfect little flowerbud of the other woman's clit, Ramsay comes up behind you, pushes your dress up around your waist, and slides himself into you. You're still a little sore from the baggies of coke, but with all the narcotics and booze in your system, you don't feel any pain. After a moment, you feel Sansa go still underneath you; her legs stop twitching and her soft, whispery noises of pleasure cease. You glance up. She's passed out. Mouth slack, the whole nine yards. Great. You lay your head against her thigh as Ramsay fucks you. He's not going to want to stop for something as trifling as a passed out bitch. Your mouth slicked with cunt, your cheek stuck to Sansa's warm skin, you're finding it a little difficult to hold onto consciousness yourself...what happened to your tolerance? It must have been too long between highs.

It snaps you awake pretty fast when Ramsay slaps your ass, hard enough to leave a hand print. He pulls out and turns you around, commanding, "Open." You're cross-eyed as he grabs your much-abused hair and shoves himself into your mouth, forcing you to taste your own tang. He's never been one to let you forget who you really are, what you really do. For a moment you are confident that you are going to pass out and choke to death on his dick, but he lets you pull back, perhaps feeling the tension in your neck.

"I need another hit," you manage, wiping your mouth. He must have had some on him, because within a few seconds, he's rubbing coke onto your gums and your lips. You catch some on your tongue like snowflakes. Before he can pull his hand back, you catch his wrist and keep his fingers in your mouth so that you can suck on them sloppily, making sure nothing goes to waste. Your whole mouth goes numb pretty fast, but a fresh wave of energy and desire hit you, just as you had hoped. It doesn't hurt to have your mouth opened as wide as it goes and stuffed, doesn't make you gag; you're definitely drooling, but you can't feel anything. You can't feel anything. He's balls-deep in your throat, holding your head close to the scalp, dragging you back and forth, growling. Your eyes are watering. You feel like plastic, like rubber, like a sex doll.

Suddenly, he pulls back, and gives you a rough push backwards onto the bed; you land half on top of Sansa, your head beside hers on the pillow. Ramsay doesn't seem to care that she's there. He climbs on top of you and your whole world narrows down to the drugs tingling in your system, hot breath and sharp teeth and the oppressive darkness of human closeness. The numb from your mouth has transferred to his cock, which has transferred it to your cunt, which was numb already anyway. 

"I can't feel anything," you say, but it comes out as a hoarse hiss. Ramsay doesn't hear you over his own breathing. Beside you, Sansa begins to stir. She turns her head and opens her beautiful green eyes, looking right at you. You turn your head to the side to look back at her, licking your lips with your papery tongue, trying to muster your voice. You have to tell someone. 

"I can't feel anything."

*

Peter sends some of his girls in to wake you up way too early. You crack your grainy eyes open, your face shellacked with sweat-melted makeup, cried-off mascara, pussy, and your own copious amounts of drool. Despite the drool, your mouth is painfully dry. You are on the bed, on top of the tasteful charcoal-grey comforter, still in your dress and heels, cuddled up with Sansa, who is yawning like a kitten, as if she had just gotten a full night of tranquil, undisturbed beauty sleep. She doesn't even look all that rough, aside from her pants crumpled around her ankles and her tits still hanging out, her thighs and face smudged with your lipstick. You kind of hate her for it. You get up without saying a word to her.

In the main room with its bright windows, Peter is meticulously cleaning a handgun at his desk while some of the call-girls are sitting on the floor and the leather furniture, cutting coke with creatine before it goes out to street-level dealers. Ramsay is leaning against one of the windows and counting cash. You have a feeling that he was never anywhere near as wasted as you were last night. You sit down, take off your shoes, and stuff them in your purse. Sansa staggers from the bedroom to the bathroom, and in a moment, you can hear her puking. It makes you feel oddly satisfied. Ramsay looks up at you and asks, "Ready to go?" He smiles. You hurt all over. 

"Yeah." Your voice is scratchy and low. You follow him out in your bare feet. Just before the door closes, Peter calls, "Be good, Y/N." You scowl. Normally, it would just irritate you, but today, it makes you skin crawl. It's a beautiful ocean-spray day in Miami. The caustic pair of you sit in traffic in silence. You press your head against the coolness of the passenger's side window. 

"Would you like to know who you ate out last night?" Ramsay asks suddenly, shooting you a sly grin. You squeeze your eyes shut. 

"Not really."

"Sansa Stark. That stock broker's daughter who's been all over the news. "Missing person," or some shit. God knows what she's doing up there with Peter."

"God knows," you repeat, hollowly. 

"What's wrong, baby girl?" He pouts at you mockingly. "You need your Starbucks before you can talk?"

"Can you shut up?" you groan, shoving his shoulder, then slumping back in your seat, a little bit seasick from moving too quickly. "Jesus Christ. Fuck this place. I'm going back to Minnesota."

**Author's Note:**

> *This is actually true, somehow: http://thetimes-tribune.com/news/scranton-woman-hides-heroin-money-loose-change-in-herself-1.1120067#axzz1HkhOTmHC
> 
> I think I might have plagiarized Lars von Trier's "Nymphomaniac" a little bit. Sue me. But please don't sue me.


End file.
